Sleeping Dragon light spills in a flood like a hundred golden urns pouring out the sun

It hadn’t taken any time for Toxochelys to become possessive of his home and those who lived there. The trained guardian was not yet Gona, but he stalked Sleeping Dragon’s furthest reaches as though he was. There was little that could have stopped him from tearing the head off the little red priest had the capable Gavriel been threatened in the least, for instance.

Although he didn’t exactly neglect other sectors of their borders, it was natural for him to gravitate towards their more uncertain front that faced the Grotto and its misled wolves. While he was almost entirely confident that recent events had been born from simple miscommunication and disorganization on the part of Larksong’s leader, he was inclined to deter them in every way he possibly could. His efforts began with their own territory — the more evidence of foot traffic the dragons could leave behind on the well-kept borders as a collective whole, the better.

The yet-unproven young male sensed Thuringwethil just as he was making his way around a gentle incline. He aimed his course to intersect with hers as he sauntered his serpentine way through the trees and sidled up beside her with a candid nudge to her dark muzzle. "See anything interesting?" he asked as he readily scoped the area for himself.